And when the ripples of this soft night unspools itself between my tired knees, I forgive myself for wanting closeness. To feel the kerosene touch of someone, turning my limbs into blue-violet flames. 

  Should I preface a needed acknowledgement at this juncture? 

A short story perhaps, why I chose to hide myself in a drawer for years and not be ebbed away by the salacious inferno I used to bathe in. 

The girl I once was, was a book collector. Each book she finds, she highlighted and dog-eared pages of people and...